Chapter III

It was night in the month of October,
And the stars were alight in the sky,
When a gent as I thought wasn’t sober
The corner I stood at passed by.

I saw that his chain was a gold one;
I guessed that his watch was the same;
And so, as the gent was an old one,
I thought him legitimate game.

I’d got his gold chain in my fingers,
And was going to give it a tug,
When whack came a couple of stingers--
Two beauties--and right on my lug.

Then I’d one that struck stars from my peeper
And another that shifted my jaw--
A regular send-you-to-sleeper--
And that is the last that I saw.

The last that I saw till a peeler,
To fill sorrow’s cup to the brim,
Put my carcase inside a four-wheeler,
And said, “What a flat to try him!”

“Who is he?” I groaned, as in torture
I nervously felt for my face;
And he said, “Well, you tackled a scorcher;
That elderly gent was Jem Mace.”

The Cigarette.

Young England, ’twixt its idle lips,
A tiny twirl of ’baccy grips,
And puffs a lazy cloud of blue,
And rests between a draw or two.
Our youth, alas! have grown of late
So languid and effeminate,
They’ve dropped cigars and heavy wet
For lemon-squash and cigarette.

The vulgar pipe is rarely seen
Their dainty lisping lips between;
The dude would scorn a big cigar,
His tout ensemble a weed would mar;
And so he rolls the paper toys
We used to smoke as little boys,
And all the dressed-up, mashing set
Affect the foreign cigarette.

But now they tremble and go pale--
The doctors tell a dreadful tale.
A wretched fellow writes to say
They’d better throw such weeds away.
Their faultless shirt-fronts quake with fear,
And crease and tumble when they hear
They in their breasts a viper pet--
There’s poison in the cigarette.

Go! let the foreign fellow puff
His tissue-paper Turkish stuff,
But let Young England scorn its yoke,
And once more like a Briton smoke
Between his lips a good cigar,
Whose bright red glow one sees afar:
He’ll feel a man, and soon forget
The poisoned foreign cigarette.

The Early Milk-Cart.

I do not know what you are like--I know not where you go;
I’ve never seen you as you jolt along the streets below.
It’s always in the early morn my house you rattle by,
And banish sleep that won’t return, however hard I try.

I wonder if the fiend, who drives like mad through Gower Street,
And on the asphalte likes to hear his horse’s heavy feet,
And bangs against the kerb and makes his swaying milk-cans crash,
_Desires_ to settle straight away a nervous mortal’s hash.

Through weary hours I lie awake and toss from side to side,
A genuine Jekyll tortured by a much too real Hyde;
And when at last my drooping lids have shut that Hyde away,
The early milk-cart rattles by and bids the demon stay.

You little reck, you noisy thing, as ’neath the fading stars
You jump and jolt, that every jerk on some poor toiler jars;
You little reck, as merrily your cans together bang,
You’ve roused a serpent in my breast which has a poisoned fang.

All heedless of the web that fate has spun to hold me fast,
Sometimes I sail o’er summer seas where ne’er a shadow’s cast;
And youth and hope are mine again, and life’s a sweet green isle
That sleeps upon the ocean’s breast and basks in heaven’s smile.

My lazy barque floats placidly towards that haven fair,
The sunny slopes grow nearer still--one moment, and I’m there;
One little leap from deck to shore--I wake with quite a start,
The milk-cans dance a carmagnole upon that early cart.

Yet sometimes have I cause to bless the awful noise they make,
’Tis when from some infernal dream their crashing bids me wake;
When on my breast a demon sits, who’s marked me for his prey,
I’m glad that milk-carts go about so early in the day.

Pass on, disturber of my rest--pass on thy way unseen;
You little know how very near to murder you have been;
Your reckless driver never dreams how great has been his share
In making me the wreck I am--and p’r’aps he doesn’t care.

Yet when I sleep the dreamless sleep in that great silent town,
Where ne’er a cart of any kind goes rattling up and down--
The coroner who sat on me may possibly suggest
That “Died of too much early milk” would suit my tombstone best.

The Collaborators.

Once on a time ’twas the freak of fate
That Fidgitt and Whims should collaborate,
So they sat them down on a midsummer day
To think of a plot and to write a play.

They both shook hands ere the task began,
Adopting the Prize Ring’s general plan,
And said, “If each other we chance to kill,
It isn’t a murder,” with right good will.

They buried their heads in their hands awhile,
Till Fidgitt looked up, with a sickly smile,
And timidly stammered a first rough plot,
Which Whims immediately said was “rot.”

They buried their heads in their hands again,
Till a notion fluttered in Whims’s brain;
He got to the middle, and there he stuck,
For Fidgitt declared the plot was “muck.”

They argued the point till it came to blows,
And Whims hit Fidgitt upon the nose,
Then Fidgitt the inkstand seized, and threw
At Whims’s head, which it split in two.

Then each in sorrow resumed his seat,
And their hands they wrung and their bosoms beat,
And presently Fidgitt, his cheeks aflame,
With pride declared he’d the hero’s name.

It wasn’t a name that Whims would keep
And he argued till Fidgitt began to weep.
So Whims suggested a name instead,
And that to another discussion led.

They flew at each other like angry cats,
They tore their shirts and they crushed their hats;
They smashed the table and broke the chairs,
And kicked each other right down the stairs.

They banged each other against the wall,
But made it up in the entrance-hall.
They said they would go for a quiet walk,
And begin again with a general talk.

They talked so loudly in Bedford Square
That the people about all stopped to stare,
And a poor little child from a window fell,
In terror at hearing Whims’s yell.

They called each other such dreadful names
That they shocked a couple of aged dames,
Who called a bobby to stop the din;
He tried and couldn’t, so ran them in.

They explained to the sitting magistrate
That they’d only tried to collaborate;
But the magistrate said such scenes must cease,
So he bound them over to keep the peace.

They promised they would, and they’ve got it still,
For up to the present the “piece” is nil;
But see it finished perhaps we shall
When they both come out of the hospital.

The New Cure.

[TO MR. SMITH.]

Mr. Smith, you’re very worried,
And your face looks very sad,
By the Gladstonites you’re flurried,
Their behaviour is so bad;
And your liver is affected,
And you’re bilious as well,
But you need not be dejected,
You’ll be sound, sir, as a bell
If you switchback,
If you switchback--
If you switchback, sir, forthwith.
It’s a patented health-giver,
It will act upon your liver,
If you switchback, Mr. Smith.

[MR. SMITH REPLIES.]

Mr. D., I’m gay and jolly,
And my fingers I can snap
At the Opposition folly,
And the Parnellites who yap.
I can view the situation
With a calm, contented smile,
And, whate’er the aggravation,
Keep my temper all the while;
For I’ve switchbacked,
For I’ve switchbacked--
For I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.;
And that patented health-giver
Has, in acting on my liver,
Made another man of me.

[TO A JUDGE.]

Henry Hawkins, people mutter,
That dyspeptic pain at times
Is the cause of words you utter
When a-sitting upon crimes;
When your liver’s wrong, your fury
Can no murderer withstand,
And you sum up to the jury
With the black cap in your hand.
You should switchback,
You should switchback;
Please, Sir Henry, don’t say “Fudge!”
For the switchback it will shake you,
Stir your liver up, and make you
Quite a nice agreeable judge.

[SIR HENRY REPLIES.]

Mr. D., no more dyspeptic,
I am called a kindly man;
Of a prisoner’s worth no sceptic,
I defend him all I can.
My delight and my endeavour
Is the jury to restrain,
And restore a culprit clever
To his loving friends again.
For I’ve switchbacked,
For I’ve switchbacked--
Yes, I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.;
And that patented health-giver
Has, in acting on my liver,
Made another judge of me.

That New-born Babe.

There was once a new-born infant; at the moment of its birth
It became the greatest villain that was ever known on earth.
For there wasn’t any item in the catalogue of crime
Which that babe had not committed in the briefest space of time.

When its little peepers opened to their primal ray of light
They’d a look of dissipation and of being out all night,
And, before a score of seconds had passed o’er its infant head,
It had, in a fit of passion, kicked its mother out of bed.

At a week, a scheme of murder floated through its baby brain,
For the monthly nurse, unwisely, had displayed her watch and chain;
So he slew her, and he stole them, with an infantile “Ha, ha!”
As he managed that suspicion should be cast upon his pa.

Then he crowed till he was purple, and his back they had to pat,
When the famous Mr. Berry made his pa a new cravat;
And when nobody was looking and the hour was nice and still,
He secured his father’s papers, and he tampered with the will.

He bequeathed himself the mansion, the carriages, and plate,
And all the landed property and personal estate.
When the law his pa had Berried, with a sly, Satanic mirth,
He ante-dated twenty years his “stifficate” of birth.

Then at once he took possession, and he told his ma to go,
And because she made objections, pushed her out into the snow;
She was taken to the workhouse, where her widowed heart soon broke,
For she couldn’t stand the skilly, and she turned against the toke.

Then this wretched new-born infant, knowing not a parent’s care,
Began to blue the property to which he was the heir.
Through keeping shady company, he went from bad to worse--
He was not the sort of baby that a decent girl could nurse.

At law and at morality that wicked baby mocked,
He was such a thorough villain that Society was shocked;
And it was not much astonished when, before completing three,
He had wrecked his constitution and had suffered from d.t.

At the age of four a bloated, shattered martyr to the gout,
He arsoned so incautiously the Office found him out.
To escape a prosecution he committed suicide,
And the world has been much better since that little darling died.

The Button.

(A TALE OF THE TUNNEL.)

The Premier sat in the Premier’s chair,
And he said to his colleagues assembled there,
“The Cabinet meets, as you all are aware,
To discuss the momentous button.
The time for action has come at last,
The French in the tunnel are gathering fast;
Now is the time their plans to blast--
I am going to touch the button!”

He put out his finger to do the deed,
But a Minister cried, “We are not agreed
That the country stands in such desperate need
Of a touch of that awful button.
The tunnel’s a big commercial spec--
Just think of the property we shall wreck!
There are plenty of ways the foe to check--
Let’s try ’em before the button.”

And then there arose a big debate,
And the Cabinet sat till rather late
Before they could settle the final fate
Of Sir Edward Watkin’s button.
They argued con, and they argued pro,
Till a message came to let them know
The Commander-in-Chief was down below
In a fury about the button.

And while the statesmen were still in doubt
The panting duke (he was rather stout)
Rushed in, with his brolly blown inside out,
And he yelled, “You fools! the button!”
In vain did Sir Watkin weep and say--
“O, think of the widows and orphans, pray;
The finger of fate unless you stay,
Their shares won’t be worth a button.”

“What are the shares,” fierce Cambridge cried,
“To the fall of Britain--the ocean’s pride!”
He pushed Sir Watkin, who reeled aside,
And placed his thumb on the button.
But, alas! for the schemes of men and mice--
He pressed it once and he pressed it twice;
But his heart stood still and his blood was ice--
_There was something wrong with the button!_

The tricolour floats from St. Paul’s to-day,
For, led by the General Boulanger,
The French have come, and they mean to stay,
Now they’ve passed the dangerous button.
When out of order it proved to be,
The whole French army came through with glee
That wonderful tunnel beneath the sea--
And so much for Sir Watkin’s button!

A Façon de Parler.

Sir Charles Russell: “When you said that jockeys are such d----d
thieves, what did you mean?” The Duke of Portland: “It was merely a
façon de parler.”

When I say that a race is an infamous ramp,
When I say that a man is a terrible scamp,
These expressions are not of the genuine stamp,
But merely a façon de parler.
If my overwrought feelings find vent and relief
In calling a fellow a thundering thief,
You mustn’t conclude that I speak my belief--
It’s merely a façon de parler.

If I write to a friend on a matter that’s grave,
And denounce so-and-so as a rascally knave,
You mustn’t regard it as anything save
What is known as a façon de parler.
And the use of a word which I need not repeat
In no way refers to Plutonian heat;
It is always accepted among the élite
As merely a façon de parler.

Jackson.

(OR, “ON THE TRACK.”)

We have heard of the Bird by which Roche won renown,
The Bird to posterity Boyle handed down,
The Bird which the schoolboy who is not a dunce
Will remember could be in two places at once;
But the Bird of Sir Boyle must now take a back seat,
While we sing of John Jackson’s more wonderful feat.

John Jackson has written his commonplace name
In the boldest of hands on the parchment of fame.
A convict, he played with his warder at spoof,
Then brained him, and made his escape through the roof;
Walked boldly away in a broad-arrow suit,
And nobody seems to have noticed his route.

None saw him depart, but, as if to atone,
He has never gone anywhere since an unknown;
All over the kingdom, in less than a week,
He has swaggered about with most marvellous cheek,
Appearing--no worse for his terrible crime--
In Hampstead and Hull at the very same time.

He’s been traced to Penzance with a tramp for his pal;
At Thurso, when seen, he was treating a gal;
At Epsom he passed a flash note in the ring,
Backed Ayrshire, and then was again on the wing.
Flying north, flying south, if we rumours believe,
Reaching Brighton and Glasgow the very same eve.

He’s been seen on the switchback, all over the town;
At Epping he knocked many cocoanuts down;
He has mixed with the parsons at Exeter Hall,
And he’ll doubtless be seen at her Majesty’s ball.
And he came up to London on purpose to see
The Princess’s drama, the Something-my-Chree.

So Jackson the murderer roams o’er the land--
One day in the Highlands, the next in the Strand;
Men, women, and children can see at a glance
He’s the chap who has led the police such a dance.
But they scorn to betray him by gesture or look,
And are “mum” till the murderer’s taken his hook.

O please, dear detectives, who’re still on the track,
We know that no skill, no devotion you lack;
We know that you’re bound the first moment you can
To collar this wicked and wonderful man.
But it’s better to let him go free for six “monce”
Than to take him in twenty-five places at once.

Another Danger.

My house was in flames, and the smoke and the heat
By the staircase, I found, would prevent my retreat;
So I rushed to the window and opened it wide,
And I shouted for help that I might not be fried.

The window was many a foot from the ground.
The people came running and gathered around;
They asked me to jump, but I smiled and I said,
“The pavement is rather too hard for my head.”

My plans soon assuming a definite shape,
I said I would wait while they fetched the escape.
They went off to find it, but came back to shout
That it wasn’t the time for escapes to be out.

“I am burning,” I cried; “I am stifled with smoke;
If you don’t get me out I shall certainly choke.
Go tell the brave fellows who guard us from fire
To bring the escape, or I’m bound to expire.”

They went off again, and each man did his best--
They scoured the east and they scoured the west;
But wherever they went the result was the same--
I was left to the mercy of smoke and of flame.

They borrowed long ladders and a blanket and sheet,
Then they asked me to jump about fifty-two feet;
But, objecting to dash out my brains on the stone,
I could only reply with a shriek and a groan.

The flames would not wait, so they burst through the room,
And I felt the hot breath of my terrible doom;
One last look I gave, but escape saw I none--
The men were off duty, their work being done.

* * * * *

My cinders together they carefully swept,
The Press were indignant, my relatives wept;
But I, who have passed to a sphere far away,
Am able the blame at the right door to lay.

No blame must attach to the gallant Brigade,
Overworked and--I’m sorry to say--underpaid;
And I fail to discover a weakness or flaw
In the rules as laid down by our brave Captain Shaw.

No doubt the disaster which killed me was dire,
But the whole of the blame must be laid on the fire,
Which chose to break out, to its shame be it said,
At a time when the firemen had gone home to bed.

After the Act.

The Act of Sir John had been passed by the State,
And the shops were all closed as Big Ben thundered eight;
The desolate streets were denuded of light,
And only the gin-palace gas-jets were bright.

The widow, whose poor little shop was her all,
A tear on the shroud she was making let fall.
One daughter, upstairs, in the garret lay dead,
And another was dying, the doctor had said.

Ah! bitter the doom that the widow foresaw--
She was ruined and crushed by the “merciful” law;
Her trade was all done with the people, you see,
Who only at seven or eight are set free.

So her trade had dropped off, for no customers came,
She was called on to close in “humanity’s” name;
For in England, the land where dear Liberty reigns,
If you sell after eight you are fined for your pains.

No matter that she by herself did the trade,
And had neither shopman nor shopgirl to aid;
The law of the Lubbock had settled her fate,
A widow mayn’t work for herself after eight.

To the butcher in debt, to the baker as well,
How the rent would be met the poor soul couldn’t tell,
And she thought, with a feeling of terror and dread,
Of the funeral bill for the child who lay dead.

Not a coin in the till, and to-morrow--O God!--
To be laid with her darling at rest ’neath the sod,
To have passed from a land where the fanatics rave,
And free Britons load with the chains of the slave!

Ha! a customer comes with her purse in her hand--
She wants this, she wants that. But the law of the land
Forbids the poor widow to sell--it’s too late;
The curfew has tolled--it’s a minute past eight.

But the silver is there, in the hand that’s held out;
The poor widow weeps--the police are about;
But the silver would save her, she knows it’s a crime,
But she _sells half-a-crown’s worth of goods after time_.

She sells them, and clutches the silver with joy,
When a bobby pops in--a mere bit of a boy--
And exclaims, “All right, missis, I’ve copped you at last;
I’ve been watching the place for a week or two past.”

She is summoned and fined--O, just think of her sins!--
She had sold a young woman a packet of pins,
Some paper, some envelopes, and--O, the crime!--
A Bible and Prayer-book, and all after time!

The widow is ruined, her stock seized for debt
She is sent to the workhouse; the shop is to let.
Let all honest widows be warned by her fate--
How dared she do work at a minute past eight!

O Lubbock, when moving your merciless Bill,
You exclaimed, in a voice that made Westminster thrill,
“What crimes are committed in Liberty’s name!”--
“In _Humanity’s_” surely you meant to exclaim.

The Rigadoon.

(A PASTORAL ROMANCE.)

The sweetest joy for him on earth
Was not the Menad’s maddened mirth,
For him no subtle joyance hid
The blood-feast of the Bassarid;
But when unto the village green,
The Strephons came with modest mien,
And bashful Chloes there would steal,
He gaily danced a Highland reel.

The manor’s lord--he knew not why--
His cards bore only plain “Sir Guy”;
Nor had he e’er been known to claim,
In peace or war, another name.
Of noble blood and ancient race,
Of lissom limb and florid face,
He scorned his rent-roll, though ’twas big,
And revelled in the Irish jig.

Of Irish blood and Scotch descent,
New grace to jig and reel he lent;
But, being British to the core,
He would not England’s dance ignore.
So, when his tenants flocked around
To see him nimbly twist and bound.
Before he blessed them and withdrew,
He always danced a hornpipe too.

From youth to manhood, day by day,
Sir Guy would dance the years away,
Beloved by all he lived among,
The grave and gay, the old and young;
Performing for the common weal
The jig, the hornpipe, and the reel.
And these he might be dancing yet,
Had he not made a foolish bet.

It happened thus. To Arcadee
There came one day a young M.P.
Who sneered, when flushed with beer and wine,
At all things human and Divine.
He joined the crowd upon the green,
Assumed a supercilious mien,
And when Sir Guy had done, he said,
“A kid could lick him on its head.”

The crowd drew back in sudden awe,
Which, when the sneering stranger saw,
He flung his glove upon the ground,
And cried, “Sir Guy, a thousand pound
I’ll bet you that you cannot dance
A little thing I saw in France:
Its English name’s the Rigadoon.”
Sir Guy replied, “Good-afternoon.”

The tenants eyed their lord askance--
There was a step he could not dance!
For jigs and reels they did not care,
And said the hornpipe they could spare.
Sir Guy exclaimed, while tears he wept,
“The situation I accept;
I’ll win that thousand of the loon,
And you shall have your Rigadoon.”

With saddened face and humbled head,
To foreign shores the dancer fled--
And haunted France’s village greens,
And gay guinguettes and lowly scenes,
He learned “Ça Ira” how to troll,
He learned the curious Carmagnole;
He found the can-can very soon,
But could not find the Rigadoon.

* * * * *

A wanderer from a foreign strand
One summer reached his native land,
He sought the green of days gone by,
But no one recognised Sir Guy.
A crowd came up--he gave a bound--
Cried, “See me win the thousand pound!
Behold! my friends, this afternoon
Your lord will dance a Rigadoon!”

He danced his dance with pride and glee,
But silence fell on Arcadee.
The tenants frowned, and looked askance,
They called it an improper dance,
And begged he would at once desist,
As Mr. Burns, the Socialist,
Required the ground that afternoon,
They didn’t want “no Rigadoon”!

MORAL (SLIGHTLY MIXED).

The young M.P. had run in debt,
Was “broke,” and could not pay his bet.
The natives jeered the twists and turns,
And spurned their squire for Mr. Burns.
This proves how mad we are to roam
In search of steps too far from home;
Prize British dances as a boon,
And leave the French their Rigadoon.

How to Write a Novel.

(THE OLD-FASHIONED RECIPE.)

You start with a murder and somebody’s killed--
For the public still dearly delight to be thrilled.
You make it a mystery--nobody knows
Who gave John Tregennith those terrible blows.
Since jealousy’s always a motive for crime,
Your heroine’s loved by two men at a time--
Poor John, who has gone where the good niggers go,
And big Ethelbert Brown, who was always his foe.

It is Ethelbert Brown who is charged with the deed;
There’s a flaw in the evidence--Ethelbert’s freed.
Then he parts with his sweetheart--a heartrending scene--
For she vows that John’s body their love lies between;
And ne’er, till it’s proved to the world far and wide
Who committed the deed, will sweet Grace be a bride.
So heavenward Ethelbert raises his eyes
And swears he will prove it, and then claim his prize.

Now, Ethelbert’s mother has views of her own,
For she once found Miss Grace and Tregennith alone;
They were both much excited--discussion ran high;
But the good dame dissembled, not wishing to pry.
Yet when Ethelbert goes his mamma stays behind,
One awful--one dreadful idea on her mind.
By her boy’s own affianced she thinks John was slain,
But she daren’t tell her darling--’twould cause him such pain.

From a half-witted servant the son gets a clue--
The half-witted servant is known as “Mad Hugh.”
But the story he tells blanches Ethelbert’s hair--
On the night of the murder his mother was there.
It seems she suspected his sweetheart and John,
In the words of “Mad Hugh,” “were a-carrying on.”
In her anger maternal she picked up a knife,
And her boy’s hated rival departed this life.

In the mansion paternal Grace lives with her dad,
But her face once so sunny grows sallow and sad,
For she thinks it a moral, from facts which transpire,
John _did_ fall a victim to Ethelbert’s ire.
So now you’ve the mother suspecting Miss G.,
And the son half persuaded ’twas old Mrs. B.;
While Miss G. feels convinced that the claret was spilt
By her lover, who some day must swing for his guilt.

You pile up the agony now to the end,
And you’ve three loving bosoms with anguish to rend;
If skilfully handled your plot will mislead,
Till in turn the fogged reader thinks each did the deed.
Then, when you have given your “harrowing” scope,
You bring the brave hero right under the rope
But just as his lordship assumes the black cap,
You come to a startling dénouement, ker-slap.

The half-witted servant comes in with a rush--
There’s a hubbub in court, then a hum, then a hush;
And the idiot explains--and gives proof that he’s right--
That _he_ did the murder himself, out of spite.
Now you wind up your story with weddings and glee,
And the young married couple hug old Mrs. B.
Then you put in three stars, to show time has flown past,
And you drop in some babies in chapter the last.

The German Gym.

(A MEMORY.)

We’ve been married ten years to-day, dear;
Ah, me, how the time has flown
Since I whispered in church one morning,
“I will,” in an undertone.
You’ve changed a little, my darling;
Your figure is not so slim
As it was when you won the medal
That night at the German Gym.

You’re stouter, and threads of silver
Now shine in the curly locks
That were black as the wing of raven
The night that I saw you box.
I can see you now with the gloves on,
In the pride of your strength and limb,
As you fought your man to his corner,
That night at the German Gym.

I noticed your socks of scarlet
And your jersey of dainty cream,
And I said to myself, “How handsome!”
And I fell in a blissful dream.
But, O! when your nose was bleeding
My eyes with the tears grew dim,
And I hated the man who punched you
That night at the German Gym.

And when, as the fight grew fiercer,
He gave you a bad black eye,
And the hard-hearted people cheered him,
I felt I should have to cry;
But, pulling yourself together,
You hammered away at him,
Till he reeled like a drunken gaby
That night at the German Gym.

And, O, when the nice kind judges
Declared you had won the fight,
And the people rose up and shouted,
I trembled with wild delight.
I felt so proud of my lover,
That my eyes began to swim;
I never knew _how_ I loved you
Till that night at the German Gym.

And now we’ve been ten years married,
And Johnny our boy is eight;
His daddy’s too stout for boxing,
And has doubled his fighting weight.
But I hope that in years to come, dear--
It is only a mother’s whim--
Our Johnny will put the gloves on,
And box at the German Gym.

I should like to sit there with you, dear,
The night that our boy competes,
And see him upholding bravely
The fame of his father’s feats.
It will carry us back in fancy
To the past that no time can dim,
When his dad was the champion boxer
Of the dear old German Gym.

Tottie.

BY OUR LUNATIC RHYMING SLANGSTER.

As she walked along the street
With her little “plates of meat,”
And the summer sunshine falling
On her golden “Barnet Fair,”
Bright as angels from the skies
Were her dark blue “mutton pies,”
In my “East and West” Dan Cupid
Shot a shaft and left it there.

She’d a Grecian “I suppose,”
And of “Hampstead Heath” two rows
In her “sunny south” that glistened
Like two pretty strings of pearls;
Down upon my “bread and cheese”
Did I drop and murmur, “Please
Be my ‘storm and strife,’ dear Tottie,
O, you darlingest of girls!”

Then a bow-wow by her side,
Who till then had stood and tried
A “Jenny Lee” to banish,
Which was on his “Jonah’s whale,”
Gave a hydrophobic bark
(She cried, “What a Noah’s ark!”),
And right through my “rank and riches”
Did my “cribbage-pegs” assail.

Ere her bull-dog I could stop
She had called a “ginger-pop,”
Who said, “What the ‘Henry Neville’
Do you think you’re doing there?”
And I heard, as off I slunk,
“Why, the fellow’s ‘Jumbo’s trunk!’”
And the “Walter Joyce” was Tottie’s
With the golden “Barnet Fair.”

The Welshman in London.

He came with his harp from the mountains of Wales--
The spirit of poetry flowed in his blood;
Declining the engine that runs on the rails,
He tramped to the fortified City of Lud.

For him had the universe paused in its course,
For him had all progress been nipped in the bud;
He came as a bard, haughty, hoary, and hoarse,
To sing in the fortified City of Lud.

He sought for a mountain to sit on its brow,
And give off his lay after chewing the cud;
And he found, after searching, the mount that is now
“Snow Hill,” in the fortified City of Lud.

He called on the Britons who gathered to jeer
To list to a lay which would curdle their blood;
But a bobby came up, and said, “None o’ that here!”
Strange! in the fortified City of Lud.

He saw no policeman--such things could not be--
But the words of invective came forth in a flood
And so the policeman 092 C
Ran him in, in the fortified City of Lud.

With his harp he was placed in the dock the next day,
When the magistrate brought down his fist with a thud,
And told him ten shillings he’d have for to pay
For obstructing the road in the City of Lud.

The bard has gone back to his mountain in Wales
With his national vanity dragged through the mud,
And his faith rudely shaken in Taffy-told tales
Of the ancient and fortified City of Lud.

The Magistrate.

(BY A LUNATIC LAUREATE.)

Gaily the constable kissed the book,
And said with a smile, as his oath he took,
“It’s only the facts as I mean to state”--
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

Then the constable told the strangest tales,
How the chap in the dock was the Prince of Wales,
And he’d seen him begging at Albert Gate--
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

He had watched the Prince till he saw him try
The pockets of ladies walking by,
And pass the swag to a swell-mob mate--
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

Then the constable added he’d seen the Queen,
Who said what a handful her boy had been,
And she guessed that the gallows would be his fate--
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

Then the constable said when he ran Wales in,
He swore and struggled and kicked his shin,
And bit off his ear and a portion ate--
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

The Prince he called for his royal mamma,
And into the box went Victoria;
She proved an alibi full of weight--
“You’re not on your oath!” yelled the magistrate.

“The case is proved,” to the Prince said he;
“You deserve six months, but I’ll give you three.”
“I’ll write to the _Times_,” cried the Prince irate--
“Take him away!” shrieked the magistrate.

The Queen went out of the court in tears,
As the Bench indulged in some parting sneers;
And skilly and toke was the Prince’s fate--
“It’ll do him good,” said the magistrate.

But Parliament took up the Prince’s case,
And the young P.C., with a scared, white face,
Read out to his pal the big debate--
“It’s awfully hot,” said the magistrate.

Then the constable said, “It’s the blooming Press
As has settled our nice little games, I guess;
We’d better resign, as the row’s so great”--
“_I believe you, my boy_,” said the magistrate.

The Imperial Institute.

(AFTER LORD TENNYSON.)

Hail, O Imperial Institute!
Strike the tabor, and play the lute,
This is South Kensington’s latest fruit:
Hail, O Imperial Institute!

Rise in thy might and make envy mute,
Slanderous sneer and snarl refute,
Slap the face of the bellowing brute,
Noble Imperial Institute!

Our Prince he promised that, coûte que coûte,
He’d find us a brand-new site to suit,
And leave the “clique” and its ill-repute
Outside the Imperial Institute.

So, hail Imperial Institute!
India, Colonies, Kyles of Bute,
Lands of Britain by every route,
Heligoland to far Tirhoot,
Into our laps your treasure shoot,
For you’ll guess if you’re only slightly cute
That there’ll always be plenty of room for “loot”
In the noble Imperial Institute.

The Plan of Campaign.

The heart of the nation is throbbing with grief
At the tales that are told of the winter distress;
We are longing to hear of some scheme of relief
That will make London’s burthen of misery less.
But what we’re to do, or how best to commence,
There’s nobody able, it seems, to explain.
O, isn’t there someone with courage and sense
To draw up a workable Plan of Campaign?

The work of the nation is all in arrears:
We tinker the laws that need thorough repair,
We potter about between Commons and Peers,
And fools in the Senate their eloquence air.
To rout the obstruction that stands in the way,
And wields a long tongue and gives battle to brain,
Is there none who can marshal a force for the fray,
And act on a sensible Plan of Campaign?

There are women of England who toil for their bread--
Poor hard-working sisters and mothers and wives,
Whose years are a slavery, dreary and dread,
Who drag out their cruel and colourless lives.
Can nothing be done that may better their state?
Shall the white women slaves in their bondage remain?
O, manhood of Britain! think, think of their fate,
And start the New Year with some Plan of Campaign.

The People’s Palace.

I sing of the People’s Palace, a tale of Arabian nights,
A place where the toiling masses could feast on all true delights.
It was opened with morning lectures, and closed with an evening hymn,
And the Bishop of London whispered it was just the place for him.

It was open for recreation from nine until six p.m.,
Which times, said the working classes, were specially fixed for them.
It was closed for the day on Sunday, and on Saturday afternoon,
So the very select declared it “a perfectly priceless boon.”

To cater for men and women who toil for their daily bread,
The beer of their hearts was vetoed, and sherbet was sold instead,
And they made it a coffee palace, with scones and a plate of “thick,”
With counters for almond hardbake and liquorice in the stick.

The pictures were all improving, the moral of all was “grand,”
And at intervals there were concerts by the Blue Ribbon Army band;
With exhibits in big glass cases of terrible temperance facts,
And the entrance fee included a bundle of stirring tracts.

It was built at the lavish outlay of a dozen of million pounds
Which included the church and chapel, and the mission-hall in the grounds;
But as nobody wanted sermons, and sherbet, and ginger-beer,
It was sold at a great reduction to a philanthropic peer.

And in less than a twelvemonth after the Palace had reared its head,
On the top of it proudly floated a banner of vulgar red;
And General Booth was shouting, and having a grand “all night”
In our latest “gigantic failure,” the Palace of No Delight.

A Charade.

He wore three hats upon his head,
And called aloud “Old clo’,”
It would not be correct to say
His Christian name was “Mo.”
His home was in a lane that used
Some time ago to bear
The Anglicised French name we give
A garment ladies wear.
You’ve seen him as the comic man
In plays at Drury Lane,
And Mr. Irving showed him once
A prey to grief and pain.
In all the tales our authors write
He’s painted at his worst;
I’ll have a “go” at him myself,
And here he stands--my _first_.

It was a young and noble earl,
An impecunious sinner,
He’d won a lovely Yankee girl,
And gave a little dinner.
The restaurant, a tip-top one,
Was in the town that ‘Arry,
Who once, with Cook, the trip has done,
Insists on calling “Parry.”

The bride-elect and all her friends
The noble earl invited,
They said, “He don’t mind what he spends,”
And all were much delighted.
But when the splendid spread was o’er,
The guests about departing,
The landlord came and locked the door,
This piece of news imparting:
“His lordship’s had me twice on toast,
So now, as you are going,
I’d like to ask,” exclaimed mine host,
“Who’ll pay me what is owing?
Not one of you shall pass the door,
The key is in my pocket;
And not till someone’s paid the score
Will this ’ere child unlock it.”
“I’ve not enough!” gasped out the earl--
Without his host he’d reckoned--
The friends of that proud Yankee girl
Went shares and paid my _second_.

I stood at eve as the sun went down
By the side of a flowing river
That runs through the East of London town,
And I turned me away with a shiver.
I have smelt some smells in thy streets, Cologne,
I have seen some filthy fluids,
But nothing like this has the wide world known
Since the days of the Ancient Druids.
Let the essence of all the stinks be stirred
And then you may fancy you smell my _third_.

Where’er the flag of Britain
Floats proudly on the breeze,
In this our home of freedom
And in lands beyond the seas;
In India’s wondrous cities,
On wild Australian tracks,
In vast Canadian forests,
And among the conquered blacks,--
As far as sword and bayonet
Extend _our_ freedom’s goal,
Next year, as per arrangement,
They’ll celebrate my _whole_.

A True Story.

(A MORAL POEM FOR CHILDREN.)

The waves were high in Conway Bay,
The wind it blew a gale;
Five visitors that very day
Had ventured on a sail.

The tide ran high, the little boat
Unmanageable grew,
And scarce could it be kept afloat
By its unskilful crew.

Some fisher folk upon the beach,
All in the hurricane,
Put off, that little boat to reach
And bring it back again.

And when the gale was at its height,
Those Conway boatmen brave
Went off--it was a glorious sight--
The drowning ones to save.

They risked their lives, but Fate was kind--
They reached the boat at last;
Its occupants, to death resigned,
Thought every hope was past.

Their thanks to Heaven they freely gave,
And when they reached the beach,
They to those Conway boatmen brave
Presented sixpence each!

The Pirate ’Bus.

It was a pirate omnibus, that plied its evil trade
Along the London thoroughfares, and O, the games it played!
It ran a stout old lady down, who wanted Temple Bar,
And when they reached the Marble Arch, the cad cried, “Here you are;
But ere you step ashore, old gal, your ransom you must pay.”
He charged a shilling, slammed the door, and then he sailed away,
While driver and conductor yelled, “No use to make a fuss;
We snap our fingers at the law--we are a pirate ’bus!”

The Grand Old Man one autumn day was walking, axe in hand,
Along that busy thoroughfare the gay and crowded Strand;
He hailed a passing ’bus, and said, “Are you a Hampstead, please?”
At once they seized and flung him in right on a lady’s knees.
They bore away the G.O.M. and set him down at Bow,
And when he said, “The Vale of Health--that’s where I want to go!”
The ’bus conductor said, “Get out, you are a queer old cuss;
I’ll trouble you for four-and-six--this here’s a pirate ’bus!”

A coloured bishop, just arrived in town from Timbuctoo,
Who wanted Shoreditch Church, they took and left him at the Zoo.
He walked about and round and round the wilds of Regent’s Park,
And in the Inner Circle strayed, and lost himself at dark.
In vain he looked for Shoreditch Church, he wandered round and round
Until from rage and giddiness he tumbled on the ground;
And when he heard the lions roar he funked, was taken “wuss,”
And loss his wits; and now he’s mad, all through that pirate ’bus.

Young Mr. Lawson heard the tale and went about the town,
And found fresh victims here and there, all scattered up and down.
He found a gray-haired gentleman, who left his home at Bow,
As near as he could recollect, a dozen years ago,
But who, through pirates on the road, had travelled here and there,
And paid his income all away to meet the pirate fare,
But could not get to Bow again. Said Lawson, “Is it thus?
Then I’ll away to Parliament and board the pirate ’bus.”
No more above the driver’s seat the black flag sweeps the seas,
No more the skull and bones across flaunts out upon the breeze;
The buccaneering ’bus is bust, conductor Kidd is done,
Paul Jones the driver’s game is up, his pirate race is run.
And o’er the parlour fire at home the country folks to-day
Tell wondering babes of those old days when they were borne away
To desert isle and lonely spot, and yielded watch and “puss,”
To pay the ransom and escape the roving pirate ’bus.

The War-Cry.

O, it’s down with the German sausage,
Away with the German yeast,
And never shall Turkey rhubarb
Come after an English feast.
O, it’s death to the onion Spanish,
And death to the Brussels sprout,
And we’ll scatter the Persian sherbet
In the general foreign rout.

Let plaster of Paris vanish,
And down with the old Dutch clock;
No ship of old England’s commerce
Shall strike on French almond rock
A fig for the choice Havanna,
And down with the black Japan,
And never a Turkish towel
Shall dry a true Englishman.

No more shall the Roman candle
At the Palace of Crystal rise,
And the famed Italian iron
Shall the laundry-maid despise.
No more shall the Russian leather
Envelop an English book;
No more shall a French bean simmer
’Neath the eyes of an English cook.

’Tis the cry of the bankrupt trader
That floats upon every breeze;
French rolls they have “bust” the baker,
And the cheesemonger hates Dutch cheese.
O, buy but the goods of Britain,
By the hands of the natives made,
And if they should charge you double,
All the better for English trade.

The “Lancet.”

I knew some jolly people, all as happy as could be,
Always eager for their dinner, always ready for their tea;
Cheeks had they for ever rosy, eyes that glistened and were bright--
They could eat a hearty supper and sleep calmly through the night.
They had neither pain nor aching, and, as none of them were ill,
They had never taken physic and they paid no doctor’s bill.
O, in all the British islands none were healthier, I ween,
Or more happy and contented than the Browns of Walham Green.

But one day, inside a carriage on the smoky “Underground,”
Coming homeward from the City, pa a bulky journal found;
’Twas a _Lancet_, that some reader had forgotten and had left,
So pa put it in his pocket--which of course was not a theft;
If it was, upon the railway I’ve committed many crimes,
For I’ve often in this manner seized and taken home the _Times_,
But better, O far better, had that _Lancet_ never been
On the seat in the compartment where sat Brown of Walham Green.

Mr. Brown, he glanced it over while partaking of his tea.
“Did you ever? Well, I never!” every moment muttered he;
And he left his tea untasted, and he put his muffin down,
And his manner altogether was so queer that Mrs. Brown
Rose and screamed, “Good gracious, Thomas! what’s the
matter--tell me true!
You are going white and yellow, and your lips are turning blue;”
And for answer out he read them all the awful things he’d seen
In the _Lancet_, and a panic seized the Browns of Walham Green.

For they knew the germs of fever were around them everywhere--
They were told how very fatal was the family armchair;
They were told that every morning when the slavey shook the mat
Germs of death were scattered broadcast, and they shivered as they sat.
They were told that death was lurking in the teapot and the tank,
In the milk and in the water, and in everything they drank.
In their terror ’gainst each other all the family did lean--
Peace of mind had gone for ever from the Browns of Walham Green.

From that day they took the _Lancet_, every week they read it through,
And their faces changed from rosy to a sickly yellow hue;
And they could not eat their dinner, and they could not sleep at night,
For with every Friday’s _Lancet_ came a new and awful fright.
Germs of all the fell diseases that lie lurking for mankind
Were, according to the _Lancet_, blown on every passing wind;
“How on earth from all these dangers shall our carcasses we screen?”
Cried, in throes of hourly anguish, all the Browns of Walham Green.
They were happy when they knew not of the germs that lie in wait--
In the cottage of the lowly, in the castles of the great,
In the street and in the parlour, in the train and in the ’bus.
Round the corner germs are waiting, on the watch to spring on us.
There are germs in clothes and customs--ah, the _Lancet’s_ eye is keen,
It has even pierced the dustbin of the Browns of Walham Green!

There, it told them, germs in thousands lay in waiting night and day,
So they went and threw carbolic in a wildly lavish way.
Then it warned them in a leader that they’d better all look out
For a dreadful epidemic that came down the waterspout;
Up they went upon the housetop and poured quarts of Condy down,
Which they carried up in buckets--Mr., Miss, and Mrs. Brown--
And the neighbours stood and wondered what the dickens it could mean,
At the gath’ring on the housetop of the Browns of Walham Green.

Every week came other terrors, every week their fears grew worse,
Till they felt their lives a burthen, till they felt their home a curse;
And they sat around the table with a look of nervous dread,
So upset by fears of dying that they wished that they were dead.
And when they all were turning to mere bags of skin and bone,
And all the sound they uttered was a deep sepulchral groan,
Up rose young Tom, the eldest--a youth of seventeen--
And seized and flung the _Lancet_ right out on Walham Green.

“Get out, you horrid bogey--you terrifying pest!”--
Exclaimed young Tom in anger as he flung it east and west.
Then pa rose up, and, lifting his hand to heaven’s dome,
Swore that never more the _Lancet_ should come into the home.
And from that hour there vanished their look of care and woe,
And all of them grew happy as in the long ago.
At germs they snap their fingers, and now with joyous mien
They live in calm contentment--the Browns of Walham Green.

MORAL.

Where ignorance is comfort, it is folly to be wise;
In mercy lies the future concealed from mortal eyes.
The thousand hidden dangers for man that lie in wait,
If known, would lead him surely to share the madman’s fate.
Life were not worth the living were we to dread the germs
The _Lancet_ serves up weekly in scientific terms.
So snap your fingers at them--the germs, of course, I mean--
And take to heart the story of the Browns of Walham Green.

A Tale of a Tub.

It was the wife of Mr. G.,
The Irish Grand Old Man,
A little ditty carolled she,
And thus the ditty ran:
“I hear him in his dressing-room,
My Willie dear, my hub;
He little heeds his coming doom,
He warbles in his tub.

“When he is sad I hear no sound
Except the water’s plash;
A solemn silence reigns around
When thoughts my Willie fash.
But now the joyous sound of song
Accompanies each rub;
Things can’t have gone so very wrong--
He warbles in his tub.

“Although the country’s cut him dead,
And given him the sack,
He warbles while he wets his head
And while he scrubs his back.
I’m sure my Willie sees his way
The Tory gang to drub,
And that is why he’s blithe and gay
And warbles in his tub.

“He does not care for _Telegraph_,
Or _Morning Post_, or _Times_;
He reads therein with many a laugh
The record of his crimes.
He knows his fingers he can snap
At all ‘ye streete of Grubbe’;
They haven’t riled the dear old chap--
He warbles in his tub.

“There’s hope, he thinks, for Ireland yet,
The ‘old hand’ isn’t ‘done’;
With masses against classes set
There’s sure to be some fun.
He’ll hold his own in spite of groan
And jest and jeer and snub,
And that is why, with spirits high,
He warbles in his tub.”

MORAL.

O Erin, yet shall burst for thee
The sunshine through the gloom--
Take heart from all this melody
In Gladstone’s dressing-room;
Plank down your dollars, Yankee boys,
And tell each doubting “sub,”
No fear the Grand One’s faith alloys,
“He warbles in his tub.”

The Comic King.

I’m going to sing you a simple song,
To show that a king can do no wrong;
A lay that is laden in every line
With the grand old creed of “the right divine.”

The merriest monarch of modern times
Is the romping rex of these rambling rhymes:
The beamishest boy of the bold, bad batch,
The crack-crowned Kaiser of Colney Hatch.

For many a year he played his pranks--
He borrowed the balance of all the banks
To build him a palace in every town,
And when they were up he pulled them down.

He sat on the throne, on days of state,
With a coffee-pot jammed on his regal pate,
And he showed his Court he could kiss his toes
While he balanced his sceptre upon his nose.

He danced a jig in the House of Peers,
And offered to toss the lot for beers;
And whenever a Cabinet Council sat
He would make dirt-pies in the Premier’s hat.

When the neighbouring monarchs came to call
He would butter the steps and the marble hall;
And when his visitors broke their legs
He’d sit and he’d pelt them with hard-boiled eggs.

He dressed his army in drawers and frocks,
And little pink shoes and short white socks;
And whenever he had a grand review
He rode on a donkey painted blue.

His coachman signed all the royal decrees,
And he joined his footman in nightly sprees;
He addressed his cook as “My dear old chap,”
And in church he sat in his housemaid’s lap.

And now that I’ve finished my simple song,
If you say, “What whoppers!” you’ll just be wrong,
As this isn’t a Lunatic Laureate’s lay--
For the king was the King of Bavar_ia_.

THE END.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.